Sanuk D

I don't know what I'm doing here, I should be someplace else.

It takes an hour in the mornings.  No matter what I tell myself, it takes an hour.  That means if I wake up or — more to the point — get up 30 minutes late on a Saturday, I will be 30 minutes late getting out for my run.  There is no getting up 30 minutes late and being ready in 30 minutes.  Part of me rebels at the very idea that I could be late for anything at 6:00 on a Saturday morning.  So I drag my feet, and it takes an hour.

Once I got going, of course, everything was fine.  My new shoes are like the old shoes were when they were new, which is to say they felt like they should feel but the thrill of new shoes is gone.  Sort of like … well, never mind.  So anyway, I was out the door and down the road for a minute or two before I realized that I had forgotten to start my watch.  No biggie.  The point of the watch is to keep me honest, not to torture me with times to meet.  Just so long as I am not slacking.

I followed my usual long run route as the sun began to rise, an orange disk in a silver sky.  It seemed only able to define it’s own presence.  The surrounding sky and the river below held the sense of night, only illuminated.  I ran through Groovemont and out towards the quarry making spectacular time until the delayed start got figured in.  At the Tabernacle, where it seems my Great Uncle once preached, I turned right instead of going straight.  Descending through a graveyard, I dipped and then rose to pass the retirement home on one side and the rehab on the other.

The rehabituates appeared to want my attention, to which they are welcome if they truly want to stay sober.  I suspect they want to yell at a runner because what else to they have to do to liven up the morning.  I did not stop.  Instead, I made it to another bone yard, this one dedicated to our fallen vets.  It’s a nice spot, and a good turn around.  Again past the retirees and parolees, most of whom had gone inside, and up through the church yard to the Tabernacle.

As I headed home, Ra’s power began to effect the air but only in pockets.  I would run through spots as wet and warm as a lung only to emerge into the nocturnal cool again.  This battle will continue for weeks, but the cool will prevail.  I believe the worst of the heat to be over, and I am grateful not to have sat this summer out.  Most years, I reach this stage having squandered the summer in lackadaisical efforts at training.  I have reached this fall with a good number of miles in the bank.  Today’s run was a draft on that account that will not bounce.

So, yesterday it seemed like such a good idea.  I was all giddy with the possibilities, and I went with it.  You know how this story goes, don’t you?  Morning regrets.  Walks of shame.  Maybe a typical Thursday for @michaelfmuller, but I continue to grasp at gossamer threads of dignity.  Why, then, did I go ahead and sign up for another marathon?  Didn’t I do my marathon for the year?  Yes, but having trained for one in the first half of the year means I still have time for another round of training.  I feel so ashamed.  What to do other than begin the training plan again.

“So what, exactly, is the plan Sanuk D?” you may be thinking to yourself.  Good question.  The first time I did a marathon I used a plan laid out by the venerable Hal Higdon.   Venerable because he is old, not because he is an Archdeacon.  I am not an Archdeacon, but I do like to take the Sabbath off from running.  So I stuck close to the plan except I ran a long run on Saturday instead of Sunday.   It was very good because I had never run a marathon, and I had no idea what to do and here was this thing that said “here, do this!”  So I did that and it worked out, mostly because I had some confidence in the plan.

So, the next couple of marathons I sort of did the Higdon plan, meaning that I did the long runs and sort of did the runs during the week.  This approach was not quite as successful.   In fact, the marathons — especially the second one — sucked.  Running marathons is not really healthy, I don’t think.  I mean, it’s healthier than not exercising, but it does do damage to the body.  The point of the experience ought to be something other than health.  Like fun. For me, runs around the 16 mile length are fun.  Lots of +20 mile runs are not fun.   Weeks that have a lot of < 5 mile runs bum me out too.  I get moody.

So, this last time I did a modified modified Higdon plan.   I ran 30 – 35 miles most work weeks and spread that out fairly evenly across the days. 6 weeks or so out, I ramped that up to around 35-40 miles for a few weeks.  On Saturdays, I ran increasingly longer runs working up to a 20 miler 3 weeks out.   My longest week was somewhere around 55 miles.  After that, I ran an 18 miler and a 16 miler and went back down to about 25-30 miles during the week.   The week before the marathon I ran about 20 miles total.  That’s all approximate.

So basically, the idea of building up mileage and then tapering seems to work, except that I have a relatively slow metabolism.  I need to give myself plenty of time to ramp up and not taper off too far.  Plus, this is supposed to be fun, right?  Ok, it’s a bad way to have fun but still.   I want to run enough for what is good for me mentally and what will allow me to have some fun when I go out.  I have heard that the Hanson Brothers have a plan that is essentially longer runs during the week and a shorter long run.  Whatever.  Running around like a loon sounds good to me as long as the total miles per week add up.  Given how the most recent race turned out, I’m willing to give this a shot again.

We were 2 miles into the race, just outside of Boone, when the hills kicked in.  It’s easy to be intimidated by a steep climb, and to be intimidated by the prospect of 26 miles of hill.  And there is really only one way to face the challenge: one ascent at a time.  Not only does that mean not worrying about how steep the successive climbs may be, it also means not worrying about how quickly I get over the first one.  In the Grandfather Mountain Marathon, there are three very difficult climbs right at the beginning.  It’s important not to go out too quickly in any marathon, but especially so in this one.

We go on to the first pitch as the light continued to fight for dominance over the night.  Although we started at 6:30 when dawn should have been imminent, but a solid layer of clouds lay over the Highcountry.  Even though it was in the mid-60’s as we left Kidd Brewer Stadium, a steady breeze and no direct sun meant good conditions for a long run.  From the start it was also clear that, while perhaps cleaver, I was not exactly original in running this race wearing a kilt.

At about mile 1, a short man with a sharp Piedmont accent asked if I had run this race in a kilt before.  Somehow my monosyllabic answers did not clue him in to the fact that I was not interested in conversation.  Like Omarosa, I did not come here to make friends; I came here to run a marathon.  By the second climb, we were beginning to sort ourselves out: conversationalists toward the back, elites in the front, and dedicated mid-packers (such as myself) in the middle.

The third climb of the day passed by Yonahlossee, an early summer camp turned tennis resort, and to the Blue Ridge Parkway.  Passing under a massive stone arched bridge, I knew we were almost finished climbing for a while.  It was time to start thinking about time, and to enjoy one of the most beautiful parts of the Parkway.  A long, gentle descent brought us to the half-way point at Julian Price Park.  I passed the 13 mile marker at 2:02 with plenty of energy in my legs and more descending ahead to help pick up the 2 minutes I would need to finish in under 4 hours.

Of the two places that surprised me in the run, the first came as we exited the Parkway and prepared to traverse a gravel stretch on the way to Highway 221.  The road from the Parkway to the gravel pitched up in a way I had missed when Brocephus and I scouted the route the day before.  Panic at such a time is not useful, and the most helpful thought came from the speaker at the previous night’s pasta dinner.  Zika Rae reminded us that a high cadence is more important than a long stride, so I concentrated on turning over my feet like Lance Armstrong on L’Alp Du Huez.  It worked, and I was on to the gravel, ready to address the hardest part of the day.

At the top of the steep gravel road, I was flushed with excitement at having survived the shittiest part only to be faced with another climb we had not registered.  This first ascent of 221, up to about mile 19, came at the wrong time and challenged my determination more than any previous climb.  Many runners use mantras, and I use the line, “I bind unto myself today” from the Irish hymn St. Patrick’s Breastplate. The next words are “The strong name of the Trinity” but I just use the first part.  It inspires me to draw strength from the cloud of witnesses I believe are around us at all times and who wish for us to do our best.

On my right hand, I was wearing a tourmaline ring that was my mother’s who passed away 3 years ago, unable to free herself from the shackles of weight and lost mobility.  As I touched that ring, I bound to myself the lightness of her spirit and those of my family and friends who had tolerated, supported, and encouraged this ridiculous endeavor.  If there was a time to give up, this was not it.  Reaching mile 20, with a final reserve of energy in my legs, the road leveled out again and I could begin to think about the end.

But not too soon.  Not so much because the thought of six more miles would be too discouraging, but because to not enjoy these six miles would be simply criminal.  Along this stretch, the skies which had been overcast all day broke into brilliant, crystal Carolina blue.  As breezes kissed the back of my neck, I glanced up at the majesty of Grandfather’s peak and the marvel of the Linn Cove Viaduct.  Around this turn was a waterfall, around that turn a beautiful outcropping of granite.  The roadway was dappled with sunlight filtered through the gracious canopy of leaves.

I awakened from this reverie at mile 24 with 3:40 on my watch and one last climb to conquer.  It would be tough to judge how much energy to dole out at a given time, but I put on the strongest pace I thought I could maintain over the next two miles, keeping my eyes peeled for the entrance to the Blue Ridge Parkway that would indicate slightly more than one mile to go.

Crossing the 25 mile mark, I was relieved to see 3:50 on my watch.  Surely I could turn in a 10 minute mile.  But what about the 2 tenths at the end?  If there was ever a time to go hard, it was now.  There was not much left to give, but I put what I had onto the road.  Passing the main entrance to Grandfather Mountain, I could hear the bagpipes on McRae Meadows.  We turned off the highway and went up a slight hill before dropping down to the last ascent to the track and games.

On that descent, there was some question of certain bodily functions spontaneously erupting.  Would I be allowed on the track if I had soiled myself?  Doesn’t matter.  Have to go for breaking four hours.  As I gained the track, my watch read 3:59:48 (or something close to that) and I would not make it around in under 4.  Then it occurred to me that to qualify for the Boston Marathon, you can use the full portion of the minute (ie: I could qualify with a 3:15:59 but not a 3:16:00.)  Why not push it all the way around the track and see if I could make 4:00?

The cheers came up from the crowd as I circled the games.  Not as many as I thought would come, but they have seen more than one kilt in their days.  I was also not paying so much attention.  Everything I had, which wasn’t much, was going on the track.  I reached the finish at 4:01:26.

I reached the finish line.  Having ascended 2,000 feet and descended 1,000, I reached the finish line.  Having logged many, many weeks of early mornings and long runs, I reached the finished line.  More than 6 months of planning and preparation had led to this point and I had done it.  Would it have been nice to hit my time goal?  Of course, but Ace said it best by saying that this is what keeps us going out the door.  Which I will most certainly be in the next several days.  But not today.  Today I will take a well earned rest and be grateful that I get to do these stupid, crazy things.

There was once a television commercial about a guy who was trying to dry his pants using the radio antenna on his car as a clothes line.  I do not recall what product was being advertised, which may say something about the value of cheeky ads.  What I do recall is that he wound up at his soon-to-be in-laws’ home with no pants.  In a similarly inspired yet demented move, I am hoping to arrive at the Grandfather Mountain Highland Games sans pantaloons on Saturday morning sometime around 10:30.  This feat may be the most inspired stunt I have ever pulled off, or it may be the dumbest idea in since Phidippides decided not to wait for the train.

Coming off last year’s Flying Monkey Marathon, I was both thrilled and disappointed.  Thrilled that I was not violently ill but actually recovering quite nicely.  Disappointed that my performance during the race was not what I had hoped (or that I did not manage my time around the race so as to spend more of it with my sister.)  The problem with the race lay, I believe, in my being too aggressive on the early hills.  Hard to judge, given that I was not wearing a watch that day.  Wherein lies another lesson.

So somewhere in the preparation or aftermath of the Monkey, I devised myself a plan that should be the envy of any man.  I would redeem myself in the mountains by taking on the Grandfather Mountain Marathon.  Idiots who sign up for this Samsonite of hurt get to run from Kidd Brewer Stadium in Boone to McRae Meadows on Grandfather Mountain.  The thing is that the Grandfather Mountain Highland Games are going on at McRae Meadows.  The games apparently involve other running events because there is a track at the Meadows.  So marathoners finish on the track, at the Games, in front of like 15,000 people.  And bagpipes.

So I know what you are thinking.  There is only one way to do a marathon like this, right?  Right: in a kilt.  Any guy can strap on a skirt, drink some mead, throw a pole, and call himself Scottish, but only an insane few would dare put on the kilt to run all the way from Marathon to Athens except with something like 2,000 feet of elevation gain.  Sorry, Dr. Phil, I can’t answer your question.  I have no idea what I was thinking.  Except that I was in need of a kilt.

Which are often made of wool, which is hot, and which theoretically should come to about mid-knee, which is annoying.  The solution to these problems could be found where all problems for skirt-wearing men are solved: The Internet!  I Binged the Google to find Angus and his Sport Kilts.  (If you are going to buy a kilt, you should buy it from a guy named Angus, should you not?)  While one could purchase a man kilt and trim it up a bit, the advice I found on the internets suggested buying a lady’s kilt which comes in a slightly shorter size to begin with — all other features being the same.  To say that my Sweet Lady was bemused at my request for this as a Brumalia gift is a generous description of her skepticism.

My full vision, however, had yet to be revealed.  It would be several weeks before the temperatures outside warmed enough for a trial run, so to speak, of the kilt.  When it did happen, the conditions were so wet and nasty that it was easy to imagine myself traversing the Hieland moors with a not-so-racist Mel Gibson.  In other words, the kilt was perfect.  What I needed then was conditioning.  If I were to run the GMM, it would be my fifth, but it would be the first that I had trained for in the spring.

Initially, I thought I would run everyday.  Starting a streak seemed appropriate to the madness of this whole exercise.  The madness was stopped almost as soon as it started, however, when I came down with what the urgent care doctor insisted was a social disease but which later turned out to be either kidney stones or lady problems.  I’m choosing kidney stones.  Streak over, time for more reasonable training to begin.  Like routine days of 6 + miles and long runs of 16 miles or more on the weekends.

To my pre-runner, dilettante bohemian self, this does not sound reasonable at all.  Camel Lights, little chocolate donuts, and John Coltrane sound reasonable.  I can still go for the Coltrane.  And the occasional little chocolate donut.  I can also go for the higher miles.  The trick for me is to build a bit more slowly and not taper quite so much.  Some runners will ramp up the mileage and the lay off for a couple of weeks immediately prior to a big race.  They are like Ferraris or Lance Armstrong: nimble, quick, and over the candlestick. I am more of a Jan Ullrich (without the drugs or Porches.)  I tend to get going in one direction physiologically speaking and sort of stay in that direction for a while.

So instead of ramping up and tapering, I have been building a pretty strong base and then dialing it back a bit.  My longest run, about three weeks ago, was around 21 miles.  During the work week through that period, I was running about 7 miles a day.  You’d think I would be skinnier by now.  In any event, while tiring, the 50 + mile weeks felt good.  Subsequently, I have done 18 and 16 mile long runs, keeping my week day mileage between 30 and 35 miles for a total of 40 to 45 in those weeks.  This week’s runs have gotten progressively shorter such that I will run 3 miles tomorrow morning for a total of around 25 miles so far this week.  In comparison to previous tapers, my legs seem to have more “spring” in them yet I do seem to have recovered from many of the aches and pains that continuous high mileage is destined to deliver.

I have also been spared the serious dip in confidence that has come with previous tapers.  Not that I’m again taking the hills for granted, but more the opposite.  I won’t have to prove to myself over the first several miles that I can do this.  I can start relaxed and not overextend myself in the early part of the run.  Which is important because I want to look decent at the finish.  After all, the whole kilt thing kind of puts me out there to begin with.  I hope that I will hear the cheers of appreciation at the finish, not the jeers of mockery.  You will be able to judge for yourself, as another feat of sibling bonding may be accomplished when my brother serves as official Sanuk D photographer for this race.  It may be Sunday before you hear from me again, so please pray, preform a ritual, do a scientific experiment, or whatever your thing is for me on Saturday morning.  It’s supposed to stop being hot then, right?

Wednesday morning at 8 am in the master bath.  There I was, innocently shaving my face when I felt a slight scritchy scratchiness at the back of my throat.  All of a sudden I began to understand why Tour de France cyclists push elevator buttons with their elbows when they are racing.  I’m peaking, dammit, and I’m not getting sick.  Ok, maybe I am not peaking like a Tour de France racer, but I have been preparing for the suitcase of hurt that will be next weekend for some time now.  My lunch date on Monday mentioned that she was recovering from a little cold.  Perhaps she was just practicing Step 12 when she passed it on to me?

My denial of illness powers can be formidable, and at times I have had to be truly miserable before I did anything about being sick.  Not this time around, however.  It seems unlikely that the Ingles in Marshall would have as wide a variety of herbal remedies as the one I visited, but maybe that’s yet another reason not to live in Madison County, NC.  I loaded up in a way that would have made Howard Hughes proud.  Zinc, echinacea, and Vitizemin C.  The US Anti-Doping Agency is bound to be sending vampires to my house any minute.  They’ll never make it stick, though.

And in the meantime, I’m still training.  In fact, I can really only tell that I’m fighting something when I run.  That’s fine except the one reason I really don’t want to be sick is because I’m running a marathon in a little over a week.  Oh well, more spitting and coughing for my fellow runners to enjoy.  It really is a thing of beauty to watch me excrete bodily fluids for 26.2 miles.  Fortunately, it looks like I’ll have support present with a camera so you likely will not have to miss a thing.